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“Tenner says he stays.”
The Captain nods, although he's quite sure Robin’s got himself the winning bet. “You’re on.”
As far as he knows, Robin initially called them all outside to show them children messing about with a bow and arrow, at most to laugh at someone avoiding getting shot by a comically narrow margin. A hole in a hat, that sort of thing.
Only, there’s now a man dying annoyingly slowly on the property, and —oh good God, there goes the bus— well, he's surely not going anywhere now, and they’re all witnessing that instead.
Everyone flocks closer, and the Captain follows despite the shouting from the children, the continuous honking from the bus and the incessant gurgling from the driver seat already getting on his nerves. Or, rather, this is all making him feel quite sick and weak in the legs, but he’d very much rather pin that on annoyance than admit he’s slightly disturbed by all this, thank you.
“Oh Gosh,” Kitty tells him, “shouldn’t we do something?”
“Well, I for one am going back inside.” The Captain stops in his tracks as they approach the bus. “He’s not going to be dead for another half hour anyway and I don’t mind telling you him and his gurgling are starting to make me feel ill— if he stays, the man’s starting out on thin ice already, I say.”
Fanny shudders in disgust. “Ugh, he better not bleed on my lawn, I tell you.”
“Hm, he very well might, I’m afraid...” The Captain shrugs before he turns to leave. “In any case, this might take a considerable amount of time, do feel free to take a walk ‘round the grounds if you’re going to be waiting outside.” With that, he makes his way back towards the house.
Heather, having presumably heard the crash, runs out of it just as the Captain walks through the door. Just his luck, getting walked through when he’s already feeling sick. It is fairly lucky she’s here, though, he supposes, otherwise who knows how long those boys might have had to stay there with a crashed bus, a fallen tree and a dead chap.
That’s about the only thing the Captain dislikes about Heather —her tendency to lend the grounds despite living on them. She’s been the only constant, as far as the living go, since he got here. Thankfully, a calm, quiet sort of person who inherited the house and moved in some time after the war.
Regrettably, she also inherited the same streak of generosity that pushed her parents to lend the grounds to the army during said war, and is therefore constantly lending Button House to a staggering number of halfwits —invariably loud, busy halfwits.
The noise, the movement, that’s the worst thing about death, really. Life continuing around you. It all feels distant and foreign, in an unsettling, muffled sort of way, as if you’d been buried in mud. Which does make sense, really, considering.
And, while that distant feeling seems to evoke some sense of longing in the others, what bothers the Captain most is the impossibility to tell the living to be quiet —which, if he’s honest, bothered him equally in life.
In death, however, he feels entitled to a modicum of peace. The desire to join visitors that seems to torture Thomas or Kitty is very much replaced in the Captain by the overwhelming urge to tell every living person in the perimeter to please, shut it, now.
Soon, sooner than he expected anyway, the Captain hears cars park in front of the house, and people talking in shaky, slightly unhinged tones. Someone does something to stop the incessant honking from the bus, thank Heavens. The Captain’s made it back upstairs, by then, and so he sits on the windowsill in his room to survey the situation.
“Something’s happened, hasn’t it?” he hears Humphrey ask in a disappointed, somewhat vexed sort of tone.
It takes the Captain a fair bit of looking before he locates his head in the gutter outside the window, angled just slightly too low to see anything other than bird droppings.
He lifts Humphrey’s head, sighing like he hasn’t just jumped out of his skin at the unexpected voice near him. He puts him back down just inches from where he was a minute ago, but inside on the windowsill, now. “Yes, well, quite. There could be a newcomer in the making, providing he doesn’t move on right away.”
The possibility only appears in the Captain’s mind as he says this, and now all he can think about is how little he needs another annoyance added to his grey sludge of an afterlife.
“Oh, is it that youth group fellow?”
The Captain shrugs. “Depends, which one are you thinking of?”
For months, surely even years now, every single one of their weekends has been plagued by the arrival, each Saturday at the crack of dawn, of groups of scouts led by one of two fellows. Some weeks, there’s an ex-army type who manages to keep every single child quiet for the entire two-day ordeal every time. Some weeks, there’s the other one, who not only doesn’t seem to care whether or not the children make noise, but who quite often gets noisier than the children himself.
Of course it’s the latter who’s managed to die here, on a perfectly decent day with only harmless children around —just the Captain’s luck again, really.
Fairly enough, the Captain thinks, he would choose that first chap any day to have hanging about in his vicinity for the rest of eternity, if he had a say in the matter. To preserve the relative calm and quiet he’s managed to build for himself here, for a start, as well as simply because this one has the decency to wear full-length trousers.
“The one with the moustache?” Humphrey provides, unhelpfully. The Captain’s sigh seems to remind him that’s no use at all, though, and so he continues. “Oh, c’mon, you know the one I mean, the one who seems nice.”
Now, ridiculous mid-thigh shorts or not, the Captain has to admit he doesn’t have to think too much about it to guess which one Humphrey means now. “Hm, yes, that’s the one, I’m afraid.”
Humphrey makes a face. “Ah, what happened to him, then?”
“Well, see, he’s currently got an arrow in the neck. Today was archery, I’m sure you can work out what happened. He’s been dying for some time, now, shouldn’t be too long before we find out whether he stays or not.”
“Ugh, I died on the spot and I found it too long for my taste,” Humphrey says, wincing. “Not an ideal way to go, I imagine.”
The Captain nods distractedly. He’s watching the children get into cars. As they see the same roster of children come back at least one weekend a month, the Captain supposes they’re from the area and, hopefully, none of them will be standing there staring at a crashed bus and wondering if they should take a look inside for much longer now.
Presumably, this is the first time —and hopefully the last, at least for a long time— any of those children have watched someone die. From the look on their faces as the last few wait to be picked up, they’re handling this a lot better than the Captain.
Somewhat ironically, the Captain’s very much the only ghost here who’s never seen anyone die, in life or in death. Now, whether the children seem to be feeling a lot less sick than he does because they don’t understand what’s happened, or because these twelve-year-olds have a stronger stomach than him, the Captain isn’t entirely sure.
“Yes, I’d take a quick death any day of the week over that, thank you very much,” he tells Humphrey. “Still, he might make it yet, if an ambulance gets here someday.”
Humphrey shoots him a look, clearly wishing he could shake his head at him. “Aw you’re only saying that because you don’t want him to stay, aren’t you? You’re awful… There’s a guy bleeding out on the lawn, you know!”
“Yes, yes, well, I know —I’m the one who told you. And he’s hardly bleeding out anyway, he’s choking.”
The Captain clears his throat. “Look, uh, it’s a multi purpose wish, see: I wish we wouldn’t get a newcomer, especially not a loud, friendly one, and I also wish that chap could carry on with his life. Away from here, preferably. Don’t see what’s so awful about that… No, if he lives, we’re all satisfied. There, happy?”
“You’d like it better if that other guy died here, though. If one of them has to die. Right? Admit it.”
The Captain rolls his eyes. Humphrey’s not wrong, but he does find his reasoning to get to that conclusion grating. Because, even if his tranquillity is admittedly his chief concern here, the Captain does mean it —he’d like it a lot better if that poor chap didn’t have to get stuck here with them for now. He seems like he could do with a bit more living, he looks very much up for it.
That other one, well, he looks a bit like the Captain. It wouldn’t exactly be too much of a loss, if he’s anything like him.
“This one wouldn’t last a day in a war,” the Captain mutters to himself as a result of this little train of thought. “Or the army.”
Humphrey tuts. “That’s a good thing, if you ask me… And, anyway, I don’t know about that, he’s always seemed more practical than you were. Which isn’t saying much but, still.”
Before the Captain has time to take offence, they hear Robin announce “DEAAAD!” outside. One look out of the window tells him they’ve all been talking at that poor man already, from outside the bus, before he’s even had the chance to take his last breath.
“Better get down there before they scare him off,” the Captain says with a sigh, and he takes Humphrey’s head with him. Nothing like a severed head to welcome you to the afterlife.
“He did find a way to bleed on my lawn, you know,” Fanny tells him as soon as the Captain joins them.
She’s shaking her head like he’s done it on purpose. “As if driving into the tree wasn’t enough.”
Robin runs up to the Captain.
“He cough,” he explains. “Then, bam, he fall.”
Heather is talking to someone in a car, just outside the gates. There’s no one around the bus anymore, apart from them, but the entire area still feels like something very wrong’s going on. Like the oxygen’s been sucked out of it. That very spot felt like this for a week when the Captain died, and it not being his own fault this time hardly makes it any nicer.
“Any minute now,” Mary announces, her voice cracking as she shouts.
Not completely dead yet, then. Robin must have not wanted anyone to miss this —hell of an event.
Mary’s standing right in front of the bus door, and presumably over a half dead body now. “Will not be much longer, he has stopped bubbling.”
“Ah, very well, some good news at last,” the Captain says.
Still, he stays in his spot, at a distance. He’d really rather not introduce himself while standing over the man’s corpse. And, if he’s very honest, he’d really rather not get closer at all, and he’s not sure he physically can introduce himself at all, at the moment.
Kitty leaves Mary’s side to join the Captain. Thomas follows her, clearly getting somewhat fed up with how long this is taking. Bit rich, coming from a man who agonised for an hour before he died, or so the Captain heard.
“Shouldn’t we try to get him inside?” she asks. “No one likes waking up over their own body.”
The Captain nods. “No, not good for morale at all, I imagine. Well, we’ll just have to beckon him inside if and when he becomes a spirit, won’t we.”
Kitty claps her hands, an excited smile on her face. “Oh, I do hope he stays!”
“I don’t,” Thomas says, but he doesn’t elaborate save for a long, long sigh. The Captain hands him Humphrey’s head, which earns him another, even longer sigh.
After a couple of false starts, Mary reports “Gather ‘round, the little man is passed on!” from her spot on the other side of the bus.
Everyone who has wandered off a bit comes running back towards the bus, and the Captain follows them as slowly as he can. He’d rather know if that man is about to stay stuck here forever from the others’ reaction, rather than witness it himself.
It’s only a minute before Robin shouts towards the Captain “He stay!” and, only a moment later, after a maniacal laugh, adds “Ha! He funny— come say hello, you’ll like!”
“Bit bally early to be funny, isn’t it?” he mutters, intrigued enough to approach.
The others make way for the Captain like he’s an ambassador of some description.
“Alright?” the stranger tells him, clearly more out of habit than any real interest in how he’s doing. Which, considering his predicament, is very much understandable.
He’s sitting on the edge of his bus’ platform like this is nothing but a smoke break, his feet floating through his actual body on the ground with staggering nonchalance —though the Captain’s working theory is that he’s simply not noticed that just yet.
Kitty waves her hand around the Captain as if she’s a magician about to make him disappear.
“This is the Captain,” she says towards the newcomer, who manages to smile and nod politely like he’s hasn’t just died. “Captain, this is Pat.”
She’s beaming as she points to the man, and he humours her by waving at the Captain.
The Captain nods back, and forces a humiliating little wave of the hand. “Short for Patrick, I imagine?”
Kitty shakes her head, shooting the man a conspiratorial smile. “Oh, he’ll call you Pat in no time. You’ll see, in a decade, at most—”
“Oh I know the type, Kitty, believe me,” he replies with a chuckle.
They’ve all introduced themselves already, then —again, remarkable aptitude for chitchat for someone who’s been dead all of five minutes.
He turns to the Captain. “Patrick’s fine anyway. How ‘bout you, then, shortage of names when you were born, was it?”
“Ah, well— I don’t see the use in working for a title if you’re not going to use it once you’ve got it, that’s all. And there’s nothing wrong with wanting to preserve some respect and dignity in death, in any case, I say.”
Patrick gets up with some difficulty, and they all part to form a path. He stretches like people do on the side of the road after a long drive.
“Yeah, alright, you and me are gonna get along great, mate, I can tell already,” he says with a fair amount of sarcasm in his voice.
As soon as he’s walked past the Captain, he stops and grimaces a little at what he’s just said. “Ooh, dunno where that came from. Sorry, suppose I am in a bit of a mood.”
The Captain shrugs. “Well, you’ve just died a fairly gruesome, incredibly unlikely death. Quite reasonable, really, I’d say.”
Patrick holds his thumbs up at him for that. If anything, the Captain is starting to think this man isn’t in enough of a mood for someone who’s only just died.
“You guys wouldn’t mind me coming in that house over there to sit for a minute, would you? I’m not a massive fan of the—” He motions towards his body on the ground, making a face.
Robin’s right, he is funny, in an unsettling, overly chipper sort of way. The Captain decides then that this chap has either not realised yet he's dead and now stuck here forever, or he’s a complete maniac. Whichever one it is, the Captain’s now certainly intrigued.
They’ve already sat down when the first thing that resembles an ambulance parks outside. The newcomer’s sat on the sofa, his hands pressed between his knees. They’re all staring at him, and he’s smiling back at them like he’s said something awkward at a dinner party.
“Oh, well, that’ll be me, then,” Patrick says when the vehicle stops in front of the house.
Strangely enough, it’s Fanny who catches his arm when he gets up to leave. She shakes her head gravely.
“You’re, uh, very much stuck here, as it were,” the Captain tries. “Yes… Well, I’m sure we’re all very sorry about that— ah, condolences, I suppose?”
The Captain is very aware he’s the only one here who’s never had to deal with a new ghost arriving, now. Robin rolls his eyes at him and goes to sit Patrick back down. He plops down on the sofa next to him.
“We dead. So are you. Captain’s right: we all sorry,” Robin says, a hell of a lot more earnest than the Captain expected him to be, really. But, then, of course, his face changes. “Captain not often right, should celebrate.”
And there he goes, all happy again about something finally happening around here. Which is understandable —for all the talks of vengeful spirits, wrathful ghosts and deranged shadows in the dark, haunting is frightfully dull business, it turns out. Still, while ming-bogglingly boring, not quite the fiery, hellish sort of thing the Captain expected when he was younger.
No, instead, his afterlife so far has been an exceptionally long wait in the spot where he died, with those who died there before him —like the waiting room for the world’s oldest, least competent doctor.
“Oh, right,” is all Patrick has to say to that at first, which seems fair enough. He forces a small laugh, though he’s clearly not feeling it much. “Probably should’ve guessed, yeah, what with the arrow in my neck and that— Silly me, eh?”
They all do their level best to shake their heads politely and provide small “no, no, not at all,” and “no one ever guesses.”
“S’not ideal, this, really,” Patrick continues, wrinkling his nose as if this is all a minor setback. “Got a family at home and everything, y’know?”
The Captain watches as Kitty mobilises all of her good will to keep herself from asking too many questions for now. She’s so curious she looks like she’s about to either burst or scream.
Being full of surprises today, apparently, Fanny is the one to ask about it first. “Oh, married, are you?”
The Captain’s sure she’s only asking to keep him talking while his actual body’s being taken away, but the grimace on her face as she asks makes it look like she can’t quite believe him.
“Wha— yeah, ‘course I am! Don’t see why you’re acting so surprised for… A wife and a boy, I’ve got.” The proud little face Patrick makes then falls fairly quickly.
No one says anything. The Captain suspects the others all understand this better than he ever could himself.
“Oh I really can’t stay here long, guys— I’d better crack on,” Patrick says after some time. He seems to think about it some more, then mutters: “Can’t grow up while I’m lounging about in here, can he?”
He can, and unfortunately he very much will, but the Captain supposes now’s not the time to point this out. Bit early on for that, probably. The Captain’s not too sure, he didn’t ask after anyone, really, when he realised he was dead.
Robin crouches down in front of the sofa, and for a second the Captain thinks he’s going to be helpful again —he’s just proved to be quite able to when he wants to, after all.
“Gonna try to leave, then?” he asks, grinning. “Or talk to living, hm, lean against wall?”
Right, no. Entertainment is still Robin’s chief concern, then.
Patrick raises an eyebrow.
“‘Tis a trick,” Mary explains, not for the first time it seems. “The livings cannot see or hear you, they’ll walk ins and outs of you and cause a terrible aches in your entrails. And you cannot escape.”
“And you’ll fall if you lean against a wall, of course,” Thomas adds with the detached, bored air of a man who’s said all this before as well.
Robin smiles again: “Soo, gonna try?”
Patrick shakes his head, very much lost now. “Eh, well, I might in a bit, but— I mean, I’ll take your words for it… No, actually, what I’d like now’s a cup—”
“Oh yes, right, sorry,” Thomas says, sighing like this is a rookie mistake on his part. “Can’t eat, can’t drink, either.”
“Uh, shame, that,” Patrick says.
He’s staring into the distance now, his eyes getting bigger and bigger. The Captain’s somewhat relieved to see death instilling some mild panic into that poor man, though, as he has absolutely no desire to spend the rest of his afterlife alongside someone so pathologically optimistic even his own death barely troubles him.
The others start to break up the circle they’ve made around him and the Captain can’t help but bounce a little in surprise.
Fanny seems to catch the look on his face. “You need to let them, well, sort it out for themselves, you know.”
“Had to for you. Big time,” Robin adds, having overheard her. “Remember?”
The Captain doesn’t, not really. He’s not quite sure when he started remembering things again, but there’s not much left in his memory of his first months here, in any case.
Robin goes back outside, Fanny retires to her room, and Thomas sits down on the windowsill. Mary and Kitty stay in the room, observing the newcomer from their spot behind the armchairs for some time before taking a seat. The Captain doesn’t quite know what to do with himself, so he stands still in front of the sofa a little longer, almost certainly looking ridiculous.
“Funny that the blooming tea’s what made it sink in, eh? Of all things…” Patrick says, mostly to himself, but his eyes fixed on something close enough to the Captain that he feels he has to answer.
The Captain goes to sit next to him, somewhat begrudgingly. He knows for a fact he’s the worst person here for this sort of thing. “Hm, no, not at all, I imagine— well, we’ve all done it, I’m sure. Or something along those lines anyway.”
“Not you, though, if you’ve got to imagine,” Patrick says, forcing a smile. “Right?”
“Ah, I don’t quite remember it, see— long time ago, you know, but… well, I wouldn’t put it past myself, really.”
Patrick nods a little too long at that, fiddling with the hem of his shorts.
“What d’you do, then?” he asks the Captain after some time, in a painfully misplaced attempt at steering this towards mundane conversation.
Odd response to dying, but the Captain isn’t so busy he can’t humour him a little.
“See, being very much dead as well, I don’t exactly have much of a career going at the moment. And before that, I— well,” the Captain gestures vaguely towards himself, supposing that’s explanation enough.
Patrick nods. “Right, yeah, Army. Work in a bank during the week myself, not that you asked… So, war, then?”
The Captain isn’t sure whether he is asking about his life or his death. He nods anyway.
“Both World Wars or just the second one?” Patrick asks. Clever chap.
The Captain smiles, an eyebrow raised. “Uh, both, in a way. Well sussed, how—”
“S’the uniform, plus your age, I just reckoned— yeah… Stayed in the Army in between the two then, did you?”
The Captain almost answers, before getting the feeling he’s being interrogated by a man he doesn’t know, and who should have more pressing matters on his mind than that, really. Sparing a minute to humour the man is all well and good, but there are limits.
“You ask a lot of questions, do you know that?”
“A bit, yeah, I’ve been told.” Patrick shoots him an apologetic sort of smile. “Sorry, mate, just trying to make conversation.”
“I say, don’t you— I don’t particularly mind the chitchat, understand, but don’t you have, well, a lot on your plate at the moment?”
Patrick chuckles. “Wish I had stuff on a plate, actually, but I’ve just been told that’s not on the menu.”
The Captain catches himself just as he’s about to ask if this was supposed to be a joke. He’s genuinely wondering, but better not insult the man who died not two hours ago on his aptitude for comedy. The Captain’s hardly an authority on humour, anyway.
Luckily he doesn’t have to find an answer to that, as all of sudden Patrick is getting up and running to the window. Thomas looks at him with narrowed eyes, not enjoying the intrusion into his sighing space.
“Are the boys alright?” Patrick asks, clearly only remembering now what he was doing when he died. “I must’ve… I don’t remember where they went, really—”
“Hm, I wouldn’t worry,” Thomas says, the sneer on his face hardly reassuring. “I don’t think you’re meant to remember that part anyway.”
“Oh, like childbirth, then?” Patrick asks them, inexplicably since neither Thomas nor the Captain have a single bit of knowledge on the matter between the two of them.
“What?”
He shrugs. “I dunno, always heard you’re not meant to remember the pain it is, giving birth, otherwise no one’d do it twice.”
Thomas nods. “Doesn’t sound right at all, but yes, then, alright. Like childbirth, if you like.”
“Only, even if you do remember your death, you can’t very well go through it again anyway,” the Captain adds, well aware this isn’t too helpful either. “Silver linings and whatnot...”
“To answer your question,” he continues as Patrick stares out of the window, “the children from your little youth group were picked up —by their parents, I imagine, though I can’t be sure.”
“No, no, I meant—” Patrick pulls a face, gesturing towards his neck. “They saw all of it, didn’t they?”
The Captain can’t help grimacing back a little. “Ah, well, partly, yes. You did make a bally good effort to prevent it, though.”
“Did I? Oh, well done me, I suppose…”
On the windowsill below, Thomas clears his throat.
“Do feel free to visit the rest of the house, Pat,” he says with an annoyed little smile on his lips. “Someone could show you ‘round. Say… Captain, hm?”
Patrick shakes his head, in a huff as they turn to leave Thomas alone.
“Is he always like that?” he whispers towards the Captain, wrinkling his nose.
“Oh no, see, that’s the good face he puts on to welcome newcomers,” the Captain says. He forgets to smile, which reminds him just how little of an authority on humour he is exactly.
“You’ll get along with him in the end, though, most likely,” he continues as they make their way across the room. “I don’t but, well, you do seem more affable than I am.”
Patrick nods. “Doesn’t seem like that’s saying much, though! How about you then, do you reckon I’ll get along with you in the end as well?”
The Captain has to stare at him for some time to determine whether he is genuinely asking, or mocking him. The grin on Patrick’s face seems innocent enough, and he’s got a good face altogether, really, but you never know with these things.
“I really don’t think you should be, uh, trying to fraternise with us all so soon, not after the day you’ve had anyway,” is the only thing the Captain finds to reply at first. He tries to smile to soften what is essentially a bit of a rebuke, to a grown man he’s only just met.
“That being said,” he continues, “I don’t see any obvious reasons, at least for now, why we couldn’t get along somewhat amicably. Well, save for the constant questioning, of course —nothing we can’t nip in the bud early on and be done with, though.”
Of all the things he’s gone through today, that’s the first to get Patrick to groan in despair. “Oh God, alright, mate, just point me to anyone here who’s even just a bit friendly, please!”
Not wanting to argue with the truth, the Captain only gestures towards the armchairs on which Kitty and Mary are sitting.
They both wave back as Patrick makes his way towards them, both happy to help if that means they get to ask questions in return. With the amount of those that chap asks a minute, the three of them should get along just fine.
It’s a good couple of days before the Captain really sees Patrick again. In fairness, he’s very much avoiding him, and Patrick himself seems to avoid just about every one of them for some time as well, after his first day here.
It’s not so much that the Captain dislikes him already, or that he’s not curious —he’d really just rather steer clear of anyone whose current situation may bring on emotional outbursts. He’s quite aware this makes him very unhelpful, and somewhat selfish, but then again he’s never met that man before, he doesn’t owe him a thing, really.
Thankfully, Patrick seems to be of the same opinion and, once the daze of his first day’s worn off, he disappears into the room they’ve assigned him for some time. If anything, that makes the Captain rather like him, actually —he seems to know these things are better dealt with with dignity, and have no business being put on display. Knowing not to create any sort of embarrassment around you at a time like this, that takes more decency than the Captain would have thought him capable of at first glance.
If he’s perfectly honest, he can only hope he behaved with as much propriety when he first found himself here.
The Captain is reading the newspaper over Heather’s shoulder when he sees Patrick again, from the corner of his eye. Lucky he didn’t appear at the same time the day before, or he’d have found out he made the obituaries.
In other news, quite literally, the newspapers Heather reads every morning now says “1984” on the top right corner, which is ridiculous. Although the Captain did get used to years starting in “18” as a child, in fairness, and he’s found every year after that slightly odd. Still, “1984” couldn’t possibly be real —it even sounds absurd when said out loud.
The Captain cranes his neck to read an article despite Heather having turned the newspaper sideways to play those little word-games at the bottom of the page. As Heather would have undoubtedly been alarmed to discover, her great-grandmother is standing next to him trying to read another article entirely, the both of them standing like meerkats behind her.
It’s still early, usually only Fanny and himself wake up when Heather does. As it’s his only guaranteed moment of calm of the day, the Captain’s hardly overjoyed to find out the newcomer gets up at the break of dawn as well. Still, he’s relieved to find Patrick looking perfectly calm, and nowhere close to a collapse of any sort.
Fanny looks him up and down when he stops in the kitchen doorway, narrowing her eyes like she’s about to either rate him or set a price on him.
Patrick claps his hands together once after a quick nod towards them. “Soo, what would we be having, then? If we could, I mean.”
He points his chin at Heather’s breakfast, then looks back at them, smiling from ear to ear to spur them on.
“I— uh, well,” the Captain starts, not entirely sure what’s being asked of him, “cup of coffee, I suppose?”
“Ah, now we’re talking, good!” Patrick says, and the Captain has to admit he’s somewhat relieved he’s not misunderstood him. “No milk, no sugar, I imagine, Captain?”
The Captain nods and Patrick grimaces.
“Can’t say I’m surprised, mate,” he says. “To eat?”
This time, the Captain shakes his head. “Hm, no, never could eat a thing in the morning, I’m afraid.”
“Not good for you, that,” Patrick says, wiggling a finger in his face now. Fanny is looking at the both of them like they’ve lost their minds.
“Yes, well, I’m not sure my health’s a major concern at the moment,” the Captain says, rolling his eyes at him. Still, he feels returning the question is the polite thing to do here. “But, oh well, we’ve got forever, I suppose... What would you recommend?”
Patrick gestures at the single piece of plain, buttered toast Heather is dipping in her coffee. “See, it’s a shame she didn’t follow up on her efforts, ‘cos toast’s a good start, really. I don’t see the point in having toast if you’re not having eggs, though. And then, well, if you’ve got a fried egg on your plate, might as well get your bacon to go with it.”
“Yes, and once you’ve eaten that, you might as well plan a nap to sleep it off, while you’re at it.” The Captain can’t help shaking his head again, and he is starting to realise the newcomer’s just got something about him that makes him want to shake his head at him, for some reason.
He suspects this is because everything the man says is saturated with the overly optimistic tone adults use when trying to get children excited for something they’d really rather not be a part of, and the Captain’s slightly worried it’s working on him.
Patrick shrugs. “Well, worked out for that Field Marshal of yours in the desert, though, didn’t it?”
It takes the Captain a moment to get that he’s referring to Montgomery’s famous full breakfasts on campaign during the war.
“I— uh, yes, I’ll give you that, yes,” he says, well aware he’s got a ridiculous grin on his face now. “How would you know that?”
After a long, loud sigh, Fanny retires back upstairs, mumbling something under her breath. In the realm of the living, her great-granddaughter leaves the room to get ready for work, her piece of toast unfinished.
Patrick laughs as he watches Fanny go. “Blimey. She couldn’t believe I was married, you seem surprised I’ve gone to school— I might start to take offence in a bit, y’know.”
“Extraordinary, do they teach this in schools, now?”
“Yeah, the teacher might mention a war or two,” Patrick says, in a tone of voice the Captain suspects is sarcastic. “And, I dunno, I suppose anyone who grew up around guys who fought would’ve heard the breakfast thing in the morning, at least once in a while. I know I did.”
Of course now the Captain wants to know everything —on that topic alone, mind you. Sadly, this is the time the others choose to waltz into the room one by one, very much interfering with the conversation.
“First guy you make friend is him?” Robin tells Patrick, rolling his eyes.
Patrick gives him a knock on the arm as he walks past him. “Well, he’s the only one here who gets up at the proper right time, apparently!”
“Lady Button does rise with the birds also,” Mary says.
“Yeah, I saw,” Patrick says. “She’s not exactly matey, though, is she? I don’t think she li—”
“And you think him is?” Robin shouts, flailing his arms in the Captain’s general direction.
Patrick shrugs. He looks at the Captain for a while, pulling a face, and the Captain can’t help straightening up to stand at attention.
“Alright, yeah,” Patrick answers finally. “I see your point.”
Robin pats him on the shoulder, glancing at the Captain with a grin on his face. “Is impressive, though, dunno how you do that.”
“I am here, you know,” the Captain says, bouncing in place a little.
He feels the tiniest bit of envy just then, looking at a newcomer getting along with people he’s known for decades better than he ever could.
He’s not felt like this since he died, but he does recognise the feeling from a long time ago, now, when he stood in front of his subordinates and watched them share jokes he would need hours of catching up to even begin to understand. And telling himself rank was what excluded him from these was all well and good, but he very much wasn’t ranking officer in childhood, and yet he wasn’t doing much better back then either.
Thomas, who has been standing in the corner observing them with a frown on his face since he entered the room, suddenly clasps his hands together.
“Right, well,” he declares as if this is of national importance, “I will be retiring upstairs to work on my new poem now— wishing you all a good day.”
Patrick lifts an eyebrow, the smile on his face not even mocking. “Ooh, d’you do recitals here, then?”
Thomas jumps a little in surprise. “I beg your pardon, sir?”
“Well, y’know, I’m curious now, so I’m hoping we’ll get a show in a bit!”
“Oh. Really?” A small smile appears on Thomas’ face. “I sup—”
“Gosh, we haven’t heard your poetry in years and years!” Kitty squees, clearly unaware this only underlines Thomas’ utter inaptitude. “That is such a wonderful idea, Pat! Oh, please, Thomas?”
“Hm, yes, I suppose, if you all insist, I might be able to perform for you today.” He’s beaming now.
The Captain almost points out that a man who’s been here three days and has never heard his poetry, and Kitty, who once got excited about a bird flying into a glass window, encouraging his delusions for some reason hardly counts as them all insisting.
The reality of his abilities seems to momentarily dawn on Thomas though, as it only tends to do once a decade, and his eyes go big and round. “Oh, I must prepare!”
He leaves the room in a hurry after that, and Patrick has to rush to yell “Looking forward to it, mate!” before he’s gone completely.
How Patrick has managed to get on Thomas’ good side in three sentences is entirely beyond the Captain. Though, in fairness, why Patrick would even want to be on Thomas’ good side is a mystery to him as well.
Mary watches Patrick get excited about Thomas’ upcoming show, and she shakes her head with a smile on her face. “Lord, he does not know what a curse he puts upons us…”
Robin agrees with a grunt, the Captain with a humph.
Patrick seems to realise his mistake fairly early on during Thomas’ recital later that day. The Captain doesn’t even know how he manages to keep from groaning out loud, until he remembers grumbling himself when children sang around a campfire on the grounds some months ago. Clearly this man has had more than enough training when it comes to looking overjoyed at ear-shattering performances.
The Captain’s train of thought gets interrupted when Patrick catches him staring, in the middle of one of the shouting sprees that so often punctuate Thomas’ recitations. Kitty, Robin, Mary and Patrick are sat cross-legged on the floor, just in front of the spot the Captain’s is standing on. Fanny stands on the other side of them, close to the door and ready to leave at any time. Kitty has put Humphrey’s head down in front of her, very much against his will.
Patrick has to crane his neck to look at him, and he gives him the sort of puzzled smile people share to make sure they’re watching the same ridiculous thing. For once, the Captain feels very much in on the joke, and he’s suddenly somewhat grateful for Thomas’ three-hour-long botched recitals.
“Right, yeah, I see what you guys meant… It is a bit much,” Patrick says in hushed tones when they all head towards the sofa and the armchairs to sit and recover from this.
He plops onto the sofa, staring into the distance.
The Captain sort of sits on the arm of the sofa, holding onto his swagger stick for balance. “That’s putting nicely, I’d say.”
“I don’t know,” Kitty sighs as she throws herself on the other side of the sofa. “I thought the part on longing for life was very inspired.”
“Yeah… No, yeah, that was alright, if a bit, y’know,” he gestures towards himself, “insensitive? I mean, I only just got here.”
The Captain nods in agreement, and Kitty’s mouth falls open slightly as she understands.
“Oh,” is all she says.
“Well, quite,” the Captain adds. “Leave it to Thomas to come up with a three-hour poem on how much he misses his own life the very week someone else find themselves stuck here. No concern whatsoever for anyone but himself! Typical.”
Considering what his own worries were when the man next to him died, the Captain is quite aware of the irony here.
Patrick tries to put the matter to rest with a wave of his hand. “Nah, give over, it’s not that serious! I’m sure he didn’t mean any harm, and anyway it only got me thinking a tad earlier than I’d have liked, that’s all…”
Kitty taps her forehead, frowning. “Gosh, yes! You must be so sad, having just died,” she says, with a lack of tact even the Captain couldn’t possibly rival. Although, he can’t match the honesty in her tone either, which does make up for it somewhat. “I can’t believe we didn’t expect this would happen, knowing Thomas’ art…”
“M’alright,” Pat says, with debatable enthusiasm. He manages to perk up a bit to continue. “C’mon, don’t worry yourself over it! Doing just fine over here, thank you.”
Kitty smiles, and she clasps her hands in front of her face. “Oh good! I am relieved to hear it, really, that’s wonderful, Pat!”
By the time Kitty gets distracted from the conversation and saunters off, the Captain has not yet decided if she’s the oblivious one here, or if Patrick is simply the most adaptable person in existence.
“Are you?” he asks him, raising an eyebrow.
“I— Well, I dunno?” Patrick looks back at him, as if the Captain is the one with the answer here. “Obviously, I’ve had better days, but… I mean, this is all a bit too much to be sad about, y’know?”
“Right, yes.” The Captain is surprised to find out he knows exactly what he means.
“I suppose I’m more mad about it than sad, anyway, ‘cos— well, they’ll be at our door, won’t they, and they’ll say I’m gone… I’m not, though, and I can’t do anything about it.”
The Captain can feel the atmosphere changing, and he’d bolt from the room if the man next to him wasn’t someone he may have to live with for the rest of eternity.
“It’ll be alright, though,” Patrick says, as if sensing the Captain’s discomfort. The smile plastered on his face is getting more desperate by the second, though. “I’ve not got much of a choice anyway, have I!”
“Hm, quite.” The Captain nods.
He’s half listening and half looking for a way to escape the conversation. It’s not so much that Patrick’s predicament doesn’t move him, but he can see where this is heading and he’d rather have no part in that, thank you very much. And that’s for the man’s sake as well as his own —if there’s one person in this house who will never make him feel any better at all, whether he tries to or not, it’s most definitely the Captain.
“Well, you seem like a resourceful chap to me,” he adds, trying to be at least vaguely helpful, “I’ve no doubt you’ll fare quite well here.”
He hears the faintest hint of sniffling, and suddenly the Captain’s eyes are stuck staring at the chess table in front of him. For once, he really, really wishes any of the others would appear. Even Thomas, who usually would be at their heels begging for praise is nowhere to be found —although, the Captain has to admit staying completely still, eyes included, makes finding anyone rather difficult anyway.
In his panic, he turns and watches his arm fly of its own volition towards Patrick. The Captain isn’t entirely sure what it set out to do originally, but it ends up punching the air —thankfully not quite landing in Patrick’s face, though still knocking both his nose and the arrow in his neck in the process.
Patrick stares at him with round, unblinking eyes, a look on his face the Captain has only seen on spooked cats before.
“Sorry,” is what Patrick comes up with, inexplicably. “Wow. Eh, sorry, I don’t wipe my nose with other people’s sleeves, usually?”
Now, the Captain hadn’t thought of that, but he realises then than, yes, essentially what he’s done is wipe that man’s nose, with more force and aggression than anyone’s ever wiped a nose before.
What he can’t work out is whether Patrick now thinks this is just something the Captain does to help out when someone is crying, or if he somehow thinks he’s the guilty one for having inadvertently rubbed his nose against the arm that just flew towards him unprompted.
The Captain shakes his head, trying to stay somewhat dignified here. “No, no, not at all, I— well, I don’t usually wipe strangers’ noses with my sleeve either, if that makes you feel any better.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t think we’re strangers anymore after this, mate,” Patrick says. He’s laughing again now —a tired, teary sort of laugh, but that’s still a hell of a lot better than crying in the Captain’s book. “That’s got to create some sort of a rapport, eh?”
“Yes, I’d have to agree… I’m truly sorry, I’ve no idea what happened, really—”
Patrick shuts him up by waving his hand in the Captain’s face. “Nah, don’t worry about it, I get odd around that sort of thing as well, you’re alright.”
“Oh.” The Captain can only stare back at him for a moment, slightly shocked that he’s been understood without having had to explain himself. He lowers himself to sit on the sofa rather than its arm. “Right, well, I do hope you’ve never reacted quite like this, though, I imagine that would cause some issues, as a scoutmaster.”
Patrick starts laughing properly at that. “Yeah, might do! Don’t get as many kids crying as you’d think, though, doing this— honestly, I’ve seen more people crying at the bank, actually!”
The Captain chuckles. He’s not too sure how he can possibly steer the conversation away from his blunder now, though.
“And, anyway,” he tries, “you’ll be pleased to find out that when you’re, well, in our current state of existence, these things just, uh, phteew…”
The Captain tries his best to mime someone turning to dust, and Patrick watches his hand fly around again with some apprehension. “What I mean to say is, you’ve not done any actual damage to my jacket, really.”
“Oh? Don’t have to blow your nose ever again, then, uh?”
“Well, no. Lucky for us that’s the case because, even if you wanted to, you couldn’t, really— can’t just get a handkerchief, see… you’d have to ask Fanny for hers, or Thomas, but I doubt they’d give it to you. Katherine might. But then it’d fly right back inside her sleeve in a matter of seconds, of course.”
“Uh, fancy that.” Patrick searches around in his pockets, and produces a vast amount of things the Captain would not have thought it possible to fit inside trouser pockets.
Patrick stares at the massive pile of key rings in his hands for some time before focusing back on their conversation. “D’you all know what everyone else wound up with forever, then?”
“Eh, let me see— No, I only know Fanny has her handkerchief because she wipes her clothes with it every time she brushes past Robin. Oh, and Katherine has hers, too, as well as a pendant she was waiting for her sister to help tie around her neck, I think. Thomas must have a handkerchief of his own, but I don’t mind telling you I’ve no interest in what else he’s hiding in his pockets. Then, hm, no, don’t know if Mary has anything in her pockets, and I doubt Robin has pockets at all.”
“What about you, then, Captain?”
The Captain involuntarily flinches back at this —a ridiculous overreaction on his body’s part, really.
“Ah, a man’s pockets are no one’s business but his own, young man!” The Captain wiggles a finger at him, trying to pass his reaction off as a joke.
“Young man?” Patrick chuckles, pointing at himself. Considering he must have been very, very small when the Captain died, he feels calling him a young man isn’t that much of a stretch, though.
“Anyway,” he continues, pointing at the Captain’s hands, “you’ve got your stick, for a start. Good fun, that, could’ve used the past thirty years or so to become the world’s best baton twirler, if you’d wanted to.”
“Yes, don’t think you’ll be surprised to learn I very much did not.” The fact that, while he’s hardly been training for the past thirty years, twirling his swagger stick like a baton has indeed given him something to do a couple of times since he’s died does not bear mentioning now, the Captain feels.
“We could all gather ‘round and find out who’s got what in their pockets someday, no? Could make for a fun way to pass the time.”
“I suppose? I— well, if that may help you settle in with us here, I imagine we could indulge you, just this time.”
Patrick makes a face. “Don’t you guys like a good chat together as a group once in a while, then?”
The Captain shrugs, not wanting to speak on behalf of the others in the knowledge he’s very much the least sociable of them —even Fanny has to rebuke someone just to talk to another person from time to time.
“I think you should give it a go.” There it is again, that diplomatic tone adults employ to persuade children to eat their greens. “Lots of fun activities to be had in a group, y’know! Can discuss anything, for a start. Music, food, movies…”
The Captain tuts. “We’re the only ones here who’ve actually set foot in a cinema, Patrick.”
“Oh, you know what I meant— books, if you like, opera, theatre, whatever! That could help set some sort of a routine ‘round here. I mean, none of you do any kind of planning of your days, no wonder you’re all moping about!”
“Ah, now, I— yes, see, I’m very much the planning sort as well, but you can hardly fault us for not organising our days when there’s nothing to organise in them, can you? I say, what do you propose we fill our plans with, hm?”
“Group activities, mate!” Patrick says, grabbing his arm like he’s about to shake him. The Captain doesn’t quite know why he flinches at a question about the content of his pockets, but not this. “What else’ve we been talking about, eh?”
“Well, much as I agree with you on the need to set some sort of a rhythm around here, you’ll have to see about your little, uh, clubs with the others. And, let me just say, I don’t believe they’ll be overjoyed at the idea.”
“Yeah, clubs… That’s exactly it, well done Cap!” Patrick says, jumping out of the sofa with frankly unnecessary enthusiasm considering the circumstances. The Captain does his best not to appear too taken aback by the sudden corruption of his title, for the sake of hospitality, or something along those lines.
Patrick continues, now walking laps from one side of the sofa to the other like they’re planning a battle together. The Captain has to admit there’s something quite fun about all this. “We’ll just have to lure them in with topics they can show off about, y’know, or just something they enjoy. I’m sure Thomas wouldn’t mind his recitals becoming a weekly thing—”
“I would mind.”
Patrick stops in his tracks, just in front of the Captain, to shake his head at him. Oh, good to know the head shaking thing goes both ways, then —Patrick seems just as disposed to find his behaviour ridiculous as the Captain does his.
“Alright, well, would you still mind it if, in exchange, you could talk at us about, I dunno, military weapons a couple times a week —and we’d have to listen and ask questions, too, of course.”
“Oh.” The Captain is well aware this is blatant manipulation, but it’s also very much working on him.
Efficient judge of people, that chap. Giving a talk none of the others can interrupt does sound very nice indeed.
“Oh, well, if that can help balance out Thomas’ nonsense, I’d be happy to help…”
Patrick nods, bouncing in place. He’s clearly motivating himself to do something, though the Captain isn’t fully sure what yet. “Right, yeah. Yeah that’s what I’ll do, then, sort you guys out!”
And there it is, the Captain finds himself shaking his head at him again. “Hell of a thing you’re setting out to achieve, if you ask me, Patrick.”
“Eh, something to do, isn’t it?” Patrick smiles at him and shrugs. “Got forever anyway, I’m told.”
Oh well, he does look a lot happier now than he did a minute ago —and if that can keep his mind off of things for now, the Captain supposes there isn’t any harm in letting him set up a club or two here and there, once every few months or so.